Cross the Ocean (20 page)

Gert sobbed harder now. “I know, Uncle Fred. But … but I’m so well,” Gert swallowed, “ashamed.”

Fred picked up Gert’s hand and held it tightly in his. “You think you’re the first girl ever had these troubles?”

“That’s the problem. I’m no girl. I should have known better,” Gert said.

“The daddy’s the one should a known better,” Fred said. “Who is he?”

Gert shook her head slowly. “I won’t say.”

“No good son of a bitch. I’d like to kill him with my bare hands,” Fred hissed. “Or turn him over to White Cloud. He’s got ways of making the hardest men beg for their lives.”

“This is why I can’t tell you. I don’t want anyone hurt.”

“Why don’t you let me decide, Gert?” Uncle Fred said and stood to run his hands through his hair. “He don’t deserve your shielding him.”

“He asked me to marry him,” Gert whispered.

Fred spun around. “Why didn’t ya?”

Gert’s lip trembled wildly. “He doesn’t love me, Uncle Fred.”

“Must be stupid. Not to love a beautiful, wonderful girl like you.” Fred lifted Gert’s chin with his finger.

“And you love him something awful?”

Gert shrugged.

“Dang fool.”

Gert composed herself and straightened in her seat. “What will we tell the hands?”

“Don’t spose there’s much use telling them anything but the truth. Not a man here, jack won’t want to haul off and kill the bastard,” Fred replied.

“I know,” Gert said.

“Ya know, Missy, Luke Matson would marry you in a heartbeat. Boy’s not said a word since you left.

Knowing him like I do, he’d take that baby of yours like it was his.”

“But I don’t love him, Uncle Fred,” Gert whispered.

“I know but it’d be a mite easier for you with a husband. If ya married him, I’d give him the ranch to run when I died. You’d always have a home, missy,” Fred said.

Gert shrugged. “I don’t know what to think, Uncle Fred.”

“Well, nothin’ has to be done right now. You take your time. Couple a weeks home may set ya ta thinking differently.”

Gert stayed in bed all of the next morning. She felt terrible. Cookie and Uncle Fred brought her soup and fussed. By mid-afternoon she felt better and dressed and walked down to the corral. William was leaning idly on the fence watching the men break horses in a pair of denims and a plaid shirt. She knew immediately the hands knew her troubles. They brought a bench round and insisted she sit in the shade of the tree. Cookie made lemonade and carried it to her. Clem brought a log for her to rest her legs on.

They all, every one looked at her and dropped their eyes as they spoke while telling her how pretty she looked and glad they were to have her home. She could only nod for fear of crying.

Luke Matson dropped to one knee beside her. “If you need anything, Miss Gert. Anything at all. Just ask.”

The tall cowboy left her then in her misery.

* * * *

Later in the day, Uncle Fred put a hand on William’s shoulder. “Ya must be plum tuckered out. Ya did fine today, Will.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The two were silent while William stowed away tack in the cool barn.

“I spect you know why Gert is feeling poorly?” Uncle Fred asked.

William dropped his head. “Yes, I do, sir.”

“I’m thinking I owe you a debt of gratitude for getting my Gert home. Lotta responsibility for a boy as young as you,” Uncle Fred said as he stuck a blade of straw between his teeth.

“I’d do anything for Miss Finch. She need do no more than ask,” William said softly.

“She has that effect on most men folk.” Fred looked at William from the corner of his eye. “’Cepting a course the one who got her in this fix in the first place.”

William’s face was a mask of confusion and worry. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Wouldn’t know or won’t say?” Uncle Fred said.

William stuttered and mumbled. Finally he looked Fred in the face. “I don’t know anything about it.”

“Uh huh.” Fred watched Will hurry away.

* * * *

Blake had decided to not wait a month for the coach. Was nearly June already and his carriage may not arrive in New York until July. The morning after his dinner with Miss Hubley he hailed a coach to take him to Grand Central Station to purchase train tickets. During the days before their departure, Blake wandered New York. The vast financial district and the shops selling everything from saddles to gowns. Theatres and eateries amidst a mass of humanity. In that respect it was like London.

People everywhere. But Blake admitted this was different. A different feeling or energy as if at any given moment something miraculous may happen. Although some dressed fashionably and there was a mass of poor, Blake would not venture a guess who would serve him his evening meal at the Ritz or who would sit at the table beside him.

Blake roamed the streets of New York, staring into the faces of the strangers he passed. This mass of descendants from murderers and the insane had somehow congealed with immigrants, creating a new breed on this earth. One might see failures; Blake was sure, as he peered down a street with laundry hanging from tiers of balconies. But disappointments did not seem to stop them. No twist of fate seemed to tamper the enthusiasm he felt all around him. Bobbing heads and shouts to children and men boldly pinching blushing young girls. This crush of people, some descended from royalty, some running shy of the law, were living and hoping and setting their own destiny. Something he would never do.

Blake had heard the wilds of this land were as beautiful and plentiful as any on the earth. He wanted to see it. With his eyes see the inspiration and promise it certainly took to leave a life behind to make a new one all of their own. He envied them. These wanderers and ranchers and clerks. His life, his home in London was steady from centuries of routine. Blake lived in comfort, wanting for naught. Money, prestige, a grand table, fashionable clothes were at his disposal and would be guarded for his children and their heirs. But what the throng surrounding him had, Blake decided that he never would, was that success or failure lay within their own will.

Gertrude was never far from his thoughts and seeing this city made him miss her more. She was American to the core. Like so many here, she was independent and forthright. But cloaked with a softness that drifted to those lacking. No wonder she viewed his servants and his children with the same eye. To her they were infinitely equal. Each capable of great heights and withering failures, regardless of the sphere from which they’d been born.

Benson, however, had refused to enter the dining rooms at the hotel. His station in Blake’s household would not allow it, he had said. The valet acquiesced finally to eat breakfast with Blake on the morning they were to depart New York City. Benson sat nervously and adjusted his jacket.

“Eat your eggs, Benson. Will be a long train ride,” Blake said. He pulled a map from his jacket. “Let me show you where we’re going.”

Benson followed Blake’s finger to the city of Philadelphia. “And where is this Chicago, sir? Where we’ll find William.”

Benson’s eyes widened as he trailed Blake’s finger along the creased paper.

“Now don’t worry, Benson. We’ll be fine. Two grown men we are, certainly capable of making this trip,” Blake said.

“I fear, sir, I have nothing to recommend for this venture. I’ve spent my life making sure your cravat is tied correctly and there is no lint on your pants. I’ll be of no use,” Benson added.

Blake quoted a dapper man he’d heard on the streets that day. “Hells bells, Benson. You have as fine a taste as any gentleman with impeccable manners as well. Who’s to say you aren’t just as savvy or adventuresome as any man in this room?”

Benson looked around the now crowded dining room. He sat straighter. He held his head high. “That man by the window, sir.” Benson nodded and Blake followed. “His jacket is without question the most garish spectacle I’ve ever beheld.”

“There’s the spirit, old chap. We’re British, by God. Fought off Romans and Turks. We can make our way to Chicago. William did at fourteen,” Blake said bravely. He refused to think about his deepest fears. That William and Gert had been set upon by natives or henchmen. That he may never see them again.

“I’ve sent word to the groomsmen to stay in South Carolina and board the next boat back home. I’ve bought you a money belt. I have one as well.” Blake laid a stack of crisp bills and coins on the table.

Benson stared. “I’ve no need of money, sir. I’ll be with you.”

“Yes, of course, you’ll be with me. But what if by chance we were separated. I’ll not countenance you here with no resources,” Blake said.

Benson’s shoulders dropped and he deftly covered the bills with his hands.

“I’ve split the money I deemed necessary for this trip, so that if one pouch were lost or stolen we’d have the other’s share to rely on,” Blake said.

Benson sat up straight. “Quite clever of you, sir.”

* * * *

The two-day train ride from New York to Philadelphia was dreadful. There were no first class accommodations. Blake and Benson sat rigidly while babes wailed and children ran in the aisle. The noise was deafening combined with the roar of the train. The dust and dirt flew in the open windows on great gusts of wind. A fight broke out on the crowded train till a tall mustached man in a long tan coat, physically pulled the two men apart. He motioned to Blake to hold one man while a young man in a vest and a flat cap held the other. The marshal, the tall man had declared himself, pulled the warring men’s head inches from each other. He growled in their ears. When the lawman let the men loose they shrugged and blustered but seated themselves a train car apart.

“Well done, Your Grace,” Benson said.

“I hardly had anything to do with it, Benson. The constable, the one in the long coat stopped it,” Blake said as he straightened his jacket.

Benson leaned forward to stare around heads seated beyond him. “Although the man’s dress is quite unusual, I find it correct all the same. The jaunty hat, sir. The long coat and vest. Yes, even though it’s unusual I find it remarkably clever.”

Benson was absorbed most of the trip in what everyone was wearing. He commented on the lack of bustles and the drab dresses the women wore. They were a sturdy bunch all in all, Benson mentioned earlier, and he imagined their clothes were appropriate for what ever they did.

Blake was less captivated by what his fellow riders wore than the snippets of conversation he was able to pick up. ‘Going to Cousin Erudis farm.’ ‘How about them stage coach bandits?’ ‘Got me two hundred acres in Iowa.’ ‘My brother’s panning for gold in Alaska.’ Listening occupied his time while trying to keep bugs from flying up his nose. His greatest disappointment was that the train traveled far too fast to really see anything of the countryside. Blake stared at his map. Pennsylvania.

Benson and Blake pulled in to the Philadelphia station, tired, sore, and dirty. As the door opened the two men nearly threw themselves out. A ragged young boy offered to see to their trunks. Blake went into the sunlight to find a carriage to the nearest hotel and a bath. A short time later, Benson hailed him, waving wildly through the crowd and dragging a uniformed man along.

“Your Grace, we’ve been robbed!” Benson shouted.

“What?” Blake replied, wide-eyed.

The policeman nodded grimly. “Young punks prey on new arrivals. You’re welcome to fill out a complaint at the station but I’d be guessing your things and your trunks have already been sold.”

“Our clothes,” Benson said.

“We’ll buy new,” Blake replied.

“Oh dear, sir. Your tailor’s in London.”

Blake nodded to the departing officer. “I’m sure someone in this city knows how to make a shirt.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Benson said, “I suppose they do. But I’ll never find fabric here as fine.”

Blake patted the man’s back and guided him to the coach, assuring him he would find something suitable. The coachman took them to a hotel, not as elegant as the Savoy, but in the middle of many busy shops. Without luggage, Blake bathed with Benson’s help and pulled on his travel worn clothes. Blake waited in the smoking room while Benson bathed and the two of them set out on the street.

“Do you ride, Benson?” Blake asked.

“Sir?”

“Horses, Benson. Do you ride?”

“A bit when I was young, Your Grace. I was the all-about-boy when your father was duke. Sometimes I helped the groomsman,” Benson said.

“I’ve been thinking I hate to embark on another train,” Blake said as he looked up and down the busy street.

“I quite agree, sir. I feared we’d never arrive,” Benson said.

“What do say then, I purchase horses and we make the rest of the trip on horseback?” Blake said. The valet’s look of utter despair and fear was comical. “Never mind, Benson. I’ll see to train tickets tomorrow.”

Blake turned to the shops and Benson hurried to catch up. “Whatever you think is best, Your Grace,”

Benson said.

Blake stood hands on his hips on the busy sidewalk. “It’s just that I imagine this will be my only trip here and on the train I see little of the countryside.”

Benson cocked his head and looked at his master from under his brows. “Would be quite the story for our grandchildren, Your Grace.” Sanders stared at him. “The Duke of Wexford and his valet traveling on horseback through the wilderness, sir.” Benson smiled. “We’re on an adventure, are we not?”

Blake rubbed his hands together. “Precisely, Benson. And I admit, one of the few skills I’m sure of is riding.”

“And a fine seat you keep. Indeed, sir.”

Blake found a men’s shop with clothing hanging in the gold edged window. He and Benson entered and found it not unlike what they were accustomed to in London. In fact better. Ready-made clothes hung on racks and fine lawn shirts lay in neat piles. It would be only a matter of finding the closest size and allowing the short man sporting a measuring cloth around his neck to make adjustments. Blake tried to convince Benson to choose what he needed. The valet would have none of it. Bowing gracefully and assuring Blake he would find a less decorous establishment for his own clothes. Blake harrumphed and imagined Benson meant expensive, not decorous. The valet guarded the money around his waist like a sentry.